


Strange Customs

by HRH After Dark (hannahrhen)



Series: Strange Customs [1]
Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barbarian Thor, Birching, Butts, Crack, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Master/Servant, Nipple Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic Available, Public Nudity, Situational Humiliation, Spanking, Stranger in a Strange Land, War Trophy Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/HRH%20After%20Dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is captured by the most perverted villagers in the history of mankind. He kind of doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Customs

**Author's Note:**

> So. ... Yeah. This is **dirty, filthy, tongue-in-cheek crack** , and no mistake. In my head, I can hear Cecil from [Welcome to Night Vale](http://commonplacebooks.com/welcome-to-night-vale/) narrating it.
> 
> I blame Tom Hiddleston's perfect plum of an ass and way too much WarTrophy!Loki fic, art, and discussion on Tumblr.

In the months since his capture, Loki almost had gotten over the embarrassment.

The embarrassment of being plucked from his father’s house during a raid on their village, yes--being taken captive by a neighboring tribe in the ongoing push-pull of territory disputes and shows of strength.

Being made a servant, _yes,_ by the tribe’s chieftain, the blond, broad-shouldered, and too-self-satisfied Thor.

Being forced to--ah, fine, his face _still_ flushed as he thought of it--wear nothing more than some kind of loincloth that barely cupped his balls and had a string that fitted neatly up between his ... his cheeks, and a nipple ring adorned with the mark of the chieftain.

Although told it was for his protection, he felt like little more than property. Eventually his father might wrest him back, or not, or Loki might escape, or not, but until such a day arrived, Loki was to make do, serve his new chief, and respect this tribe's customs to the best of his ability.

It was his people’s way.

 _These_ people, on the other hand, had strange customs.

The fact of his situation was made all the more clear to him a few days after his capture, when he was brought to stand, freshly pierced and in that too-revealing garment, on a dais in the middle of the clan’s gathering. When Thor announced his claim on Loki and the ... conditions under which he would be brought into the tribe. Loki didn’t understand every word of their tongue, no, but he understood enough. He would do the chief’s bidding during the day, be given freedom to move between the tents and huts of this sprawling community, but he would be watched.

He would learn the ways and laws of the tribe, and he would be chastised for any infractions, no matter how small, until he was fully acclimated. Some would say “trained.”

He could have rolled his eyes, but he was distracted by the chuckles and knowing smiles among the old and young alike--men and women--in response to Thor’s words. Even the children snickered behind their hands. Loki frowned, wondering at what translation he wasn’t managing correctly ...

... until the next day.

He’d stepped out of chief’s hut, well-enough-rested and still mercifully unpawed by his new lord, and he’d gone on the first of his assigned errands, to gather dried fish from the woman who kept the stores across the way. His garment was still awkward--humiliating--his cock stuffed behind the tiny flap that wound around his balls and snugged up into his crack, leaving his prominent buttocks completely exposed. No one else in the tribe wore a similar garment, not even the older servants, who were at least given long tunics. Loki wondered what made him special in such an unfortunate way.

He soon learned.

It was when he found himself bent over the lap of the old fisherwoman, having his ass smacked with some kind of spatula. From her complaints ahead of performing the indignity, he pieced together that he had used the wrong form of address, greeting her as an unmarried woman rather than widow, and this had caused offense. He thought to struggle, but he remembered the chieftain’s words before Loki left the hut that morning:

“The village will instruct you in how to be one of us, and you will accept it, no matter the means, and you will learn.”

Those strange words, along with Thor’s speech to the tribe and the peculiar reactions, gave Loki the very sinking feeling that he now understood exactly what Thor meant.

The spatula stung.

So did the flat of the sword-crafter’s wide blade, later, as it struck his buttocks five times, its target made easier by Loki’s position, bent double with his fingertips pressed into the rough floor. And so did the surprisingly effective palm of the maiden he offended by taking precedence over her at a crossways. 

By the time he returned to the tent that evening, he had been “corrected” no fewer than six times, all for seemingly minor infractions. He was baffled and more than a little embarrassed by this turn of events. He knew his bottom was glowing, blushed and hot, only highlighted by the dark braided string that bisected it.

Thor looked up with interest as Loki stepped through the doorway. At Loki’s averted eyes and sheepish twist of mouth, Thor apparently decided to take mercy on him. “I understand you got in a bit of trouble today.”

Loki only nodded, unsure of how to respond. But at Thor’s next words, his mouth went a little slack; he was ordered to turn around.

“Ach,” Loki heard. “You _did_ get into a fair amount of trouble.” He heard Thor step up behind him, and then--gods--touch a cool, dry hand to his aching ass.

Thor continued, voice turning a bit stern as he palmed a buttock with that firm hand. “It is also my responsibility as your master to ensure your punishment is thorough.” And if there were any doubt what Thor meant, the next words cleared them up. “Lie down, on your back, on the bed.”

Loki shivered. He'd known what was coming. Finally, Thor would give in to his obvious, wicked, and energetic predilections. Loki knew all about them, and was filled with dread (yes, dread-- _really_ ) at the prospect of becoming their target. Since his capture, he'd slept on his own mat on the floor, across the open room from Thor’s bed, where he could listen to and see the men and women Thor bedded each night--the fisherwoman cheerfully among them--but had remained untouched himself. Excepting the times he touched himself listening to Thor’s lusty grunts, but that was neither here nor there. He was permitted some relief--release--in this strange village, was he not?

Apparently, he finally would have it, as undesired as the prospect was. ( _Really._ )

Thor was over him then, at the foot of the bed. He tugged Loki down so his knees were bent, heels digging into the edge of the mattress, and then opened his thighs wide so they fell to either side of his hips. Loki licked his lips. Then, he saw--

A thin bundle of birch switches, gripped loosely in Thor’s other hand.

Oh.

Before Loki could object--not that he had any right to do so, per his own people's customs--Thor had begun striping the white and tender skin of Loki’s inner thighs, delivering first one strike, then another, and then another, evenly up and down Loki’s soft flesh, leaving behind a pattern of interwoven pink lines. 

While the switches came very near where Loki's sensitive sac quivered beneath the cloth, Thor used care, skirting those delicate bits while landing perfect marks to the thin and fine skin just below. Before Loki was completely lost to the sensation, which was entirely unpleasant and not stimulating at _all_ , he puzzled at Thor’s expression--as if the chieftain were trying to layer a merely-tolerant sense of duty over an entirely different emotion, and failing. Loki lost track of that train of thought when Thor paused to pull his loose-fitted tunic over his head and bare his abundant torso; the exertion seemed to be heating up Thor's limbs and had left fresh color on his cheekbones.

Loki gave up trying to maintain stoicism after the first few blows; instead, he just mewled and whined and arched his back and, finally, groaned once as he let his legs sag limply outward, making it only easier for Thor to continue mortifying his flesh with that tanned, sweat-bathed, densely-muscled arm that rose and fell rhythmically as Loki watched through slitted eyelids.

Oh, but Loki was thoroughly punished indeed, he knew, as he bit back tiny noises, stretched his arms up over his head, and wormed fingertips convulsively into the bedding. The entire lower half of his body felt hot and used and--

But Thor still didn’t fuck him.

 _What_ a relief.

He did call in a healer for Loki, after the birching was finished, and the crone used some kind of ointment that surely had magical properties for how it soothed and calmed Loki’s throbbing flesh. Thor laughed at the look on Loki’s face as the marks mostly faded--explained that he wouldn’t learn much if he were broken before the lessons were finished.

And Loki also learned that the first day was an easy one.

After that--and he knew from history how quickly word traveled in communities such as this--the punishments only got more numerous and inventive. Yes, he was taken over the laps of almost every man of status in the village, whipped with leather straps or an old sandal or just a broad palm. But the stablewomen enjoyed their crops, too, and would torment him even with the lightest, smallest implements, meant for ponies, licking the flesh of his round cheeks with the flared tips and leaving sharp stings in their wake.

The older women were the most challenging--they knew from husbands and sons how to mete out discipline that would cause his face to flame as well as his buttocks. And they seemed to be the quickest to find offense, in the way Loki’s expression wasn’t quite deferential enough or he’d asked for some fruit that “everyone knew” was “long out of season,” even though Thor had demanded it of him this morning. (And would stripe him a few times additionally that night for not procuring it.)

And even though Thor would lead him to the bed, position him carefully, and whip the soft, creamy skin inside his thighs until Loki keened, writhing so much that his cock would--at times--slip free of its inadequate restraint, Thor _still_ didn’t fuck him.

Which was a good thing. Of course.

Loki also hadn’t tried to escape.

After a few months of this, Loki began to feel suspicious.

It was probably a latent reaction to his capture, to how he had been treated since--though, in fact, he’d been treated well enough, he supposed, the protected ward of a chieftain who had turned out to have some small measure of wisdom to mete out to his people. Conflicts were few and quickly resolved. The villagers had plentiful food and ale and shared both freely with their servants. Even the servants themselves, the seasoned ones, were growing fat and content.

It was almost idyllic.

It was a little consternating. (And Loki would have put his hands on his hips, if it hadn’t drawn attention to his near-nudity. Would have scratched his chest in puzzlement, if it hadn’t jangled the small medallion of Thor’s claiming that teased through his nipple.)

Even Loki’s daily punishments were almost always delivered with good-natured smiles, Loki sent off after with words of encouragement, like a strapping young man who just needed to be taken in hand after a bit of mischief ... And, well, it was those smiles, that encouragement that only fueled his suspicions about the role he played in the village.

He had been spanked gently, roughly, affectionately, sternly, barehanded and with a variety of implements, and in every position imaginable by every of-age villager, including ones he had seen regularly committing the very same infractions he himself had been told were forbidden. Sometimes he wondered if he had actually learned a thing, or if something critical were being lost in the translation, since the frequency of the infractions and their swift judgment never seemed to change.

Also, since that first day, he had felt eyes traversing his figure constantly, lingering on the parts of his body usually hidden from view. Or hidden from view on anyone but the chieftain’s prized servant, whose jostling cock and balls tested the very integrity of the tiny cloth that embraced them. Whose skin was sometimes--more often than not--lightly oiled, head to toe, by a series of volunteers, before he was sent to his duties in the warm summer sun. Loki indeed noticed the way the maidens would clutch their bosoms as he passed, faces coloring, or the old men would raise an eyebrow before taking long, thoughtful puffs from their pipes. Didn’t think he was imagining the way couples would disappear in his wake--how he’d return some moments later on the same path to hear the unmistakable sounds of carnal pleasure emanating from tents and huts.

He knew there were suddenly many more newly-pregnant women in the village than there had been at his arrival, and far, far fewer maids.

Loki still hadn’t tried to escape, which ... was probably a good thing, from the point of view of those unborn babes.

And ... Thor _still_ hadn’t fucked him. Which was ... a relief, no? Yes! A _relief._ Though Loki had noticed Thor’s appetite for coupling seemed to have increased in the intervening time--often, he would leave Loki on his mat, still being administered to by the healer, while Thor grabbed some willing woman or strong young man from the communal fire outside his door, climbed atop the night’s companion, and rutted as he noisily sang out his pleasure. Seemingly aimed in Loki’s direction.

Hm.

Loki would be much quieter, later, when he gathered the oil that had accumulated in his crevices and used it to smooth his hand over his own rampant shaft, providing his own release long after he had twitched through the sounds of Thor's.

It was, indeed, _very_ consternating.

It all came to a head--so to speak--when Loki dropped some coins to the ground during a transaction with the village tanner. At least, Loki would say it was an accident, though he had begun to feel some responsibility toward the town’s rate of fecundity, and if his rosy, exposed bottom had contributed to it, well, it really was a small sacrifice.

Anyway, Olaf--the tanner--had gotten a gleam in his eye, and he twisted and turned and bent Loki into a new position, one perfectly conducive to Loki’s current way of thinking. He was straddling Olaf’s long, wide thigh, and pulled over the man’s other leg to the bench upon which they perched. The thick muscle of the leg that pressed between Loki’s thighs cushioned and yet also woke Loki’s cock, and once the spanking started--

Well. The momentum rocked Loki, backward and forward, along the heavy thigh, both torturing his cock with the pressure and working it to an unprecedented, urgent hardness. He knew the eager head was beginning to poke up from above the cloth that shielded it from view, and he wondered if his drippings would leave a stain on Olaf’s soft suede trousers. Imagined that would earn more punishments.

He hoped his gasps sounded like pain and remorse.

The spanking was over far too soon, from the point of view of Loki’s cock, and, soon enough, he stood in front of his castigator, face just as red as the erection peeking out of his covering. For the first time, the throbbing of his ass wasn’t his primary concern.

Olaf gave him a look, then a smirk, and then told him efficiently to “get home. Your lord will have something to say about the state you’re in.” Before Loki could leave, the callused hand reached out and ... adjusted him in his covering, so that even more of his hardness emerged from the flap of cloth. Loki squeaked. “There--that’s better.”

He definitely didn’t imagine the wake of disappearances as he crossed through the village that time. What sort of tribe _was_ this, anyway? But he did as bade and hurried home, to Thor. Tall, strong, blue-eyed, meaty-handed Thor, who still hadn’t--

Well, you know.

The burly chief’s expression was a strange kind of approval--a sort of enjoyment as he took in the sight of Loki panting in the doorway, cock still peeking out from its covering and drooling a bit. Still, he gave Loki’s buttocks the customary review, followed by a little pinch that made Loki jump, and asked him what had left him in that state.

After Loki had described Olaf’s punishment--and he was purely out of breath from the speedy walk, and no other reason--Thor looked around for a moment before he found an adequate chair, one that could hold both their weights. He placed it in the center of the room and then sat, giving Loki an expectant look. 

“Show me,” he commanded.

Loki quickly did as bade--he had learned a few lessons in these months, and obeying Thor in all ways was, of course, the first. He arranged himself carefully over Thor’s thigh, and then not so carefully, Loki’s own muscles gripping the leg between them and shifting his cock into the best position to make the most of the ride. His upper body fell forward, over Thor’s other hip, and his palms braced on the ground.

“Like so,” he whispered up to Thor through the fall of his hair.

Thor’s hand _hurt,_ as it turned out. Loki’d only had the birchings from the chieftain to compare them to, but now he was grateful, for if Thor had castigated him this way from the beginning, Loki would have indeed been broken. Instead, this was the sweet culmination of what-- _Oh!_ \--what he now recognized as a peculiar (very peculiar) kind of training.

One he apparently had a natural inclination for.

 _Well._ Perhaps these customs made a certain kind of sense.

His voice rose, singing its own pleasure as his cock, guided by harsh blows, rocked back and forth over the impressive muscle of Thor’s thigh. He knew he would stain Thor’s rough linen leggings--and that he would be the one to wash them--but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His fingers dragged along the floor, scratching in the pressed-down dirt, and he heard Thor hum his approval.

He wondered if the spanking would end when he-- _Oh!_ \--climaxed, or if Thor would keep going. Found he didn’t care much, only focused as he was by the pain in his buttocks and the hot throbbing in his compressed cock. He chewed on his bottom lip, then, trying to stifle the noises he knew were giving Thor too much satisfaction, the enormous, vigorous, barrel-chested brute.

It was all for nil, of course. Eventually, Thor’s blows turned even harsher, and Loki rode his thigh harder, almost at a gallop, and the build-up of his pleasure was announced with a long, low cry that resonated through half of the village--though most of fuckable age were engaged in their own copulations since Loki had hurried, erection on display, through their midst.

Loki bit off his cry with a gasp as his abdomen tensed, and, with one final hard smack from Thor’s hand--one final drag over that unforgiving makeshift saddle--Loki felt his balls pulse, the fattened rod of his overstimulated cock spilling stream after stream of hot seed onto Thor’s leggings. His nails clawed into the dirt and his toes kicked out on the other side, involuntary spasms, but he rode out his pleasure gratefully as Thor finished with a succession of light, almost-teasing spanks to Loki’s well-abused, clenching cheeks.

Loki would have moved, but he had no control over his arms and legs--or his mind, evidently, which was fuzzy with long-delayed pleasure. Instead, Thor, whose approving smile was near to radiant, gently gathered him and carried him bodily to Thor’s own bed, placing him over the furs and linens that were piled there.

Loki watched, breathless, as Thor found a loose cloth to wipe at his leggings, as he took a moment to run a fingertip through the dripping mess and bring it to his mouth, making a show of tasting and savoring. Then, even despite that display, Loki finally was able to get some control, enough to budge over at least when Thor climbed into bed next to him.

As Thor toyed with the strings holding Loki’s covering to his hips--traced a line around to the top of his ass and down into the crack in-between, he smiled a tiny wicked smile, which only made his smug, barbarian face more fine, his blue eyes more crystalline, and then spoke: “I believe you have learned everything there is to learn about how to be one of us. You have done well.” Loki snorted tiredly, knowing himself to have heard the biggest understatement of his life.

Then, his expression turning just a bit serious, Thor added, “You may leave, if you wish. ... I will free you, so you may return to your own village. ... If you wish it.” Thor’s hesitations broadcast his own wishes loudly, as did the gentle hold on Loki's naked hip.

Loki thought of it, of his role in this village, that of ritual sacrifice, of whipping (er, spanking?) boy, of inadvertent symbol of fecundity.

He wondered how many infant boys--and girls--would be named a variant of “Loki” in the early spring, to honor what "inspired" their conception. It _was_ the village's custom, after all.

He looked critically at Thor, but, really, he had already made up his mind. “I will stay, on two conditions,” he intoned, his own voice found, and firm for the first time since his capture. He had Thor’s full attention, _not,_ of course, for the first time. “One, you will allow me to wear actual clothing when the weather turns.” Loki had actually been a little worried, but Thor waved at him with an “well, obviously” gesture.

“And, two,” he continued, reaching for where Thor’s impressive girth swelled against the lacings that restrained it. “You will _fuck me_ already.”

Thor laughed, and did just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Best I can explain is, um, X-rated Hobbiton?
> 
> Here's Wikipedia's entry on [birching](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birching). Thor is, of course, being quite gentle, if utterly thorough. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Here I am on [Tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Strange Customs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001659) by [chasingriver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver)




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